


Failure to Communicate

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Multi, Phone Sex, Sex Toys, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, Zip Ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They act. Finch directs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure to Communicate

**Author's Note:**

> Deal with it.

He cracks the number-of-the-week’s skull against the wall of the alley once, twice, three times, and has just finished calling Detective Carter to help clean up his mess when Finch is calling him, voice tight in his ear.

“Now?” Reese asks.

“Yes. Right now.”

“I’ve still got blood on my hands, Finch,” he says softly.

“Leave it. Walk with your hands in your pockets. Let him smell it on you.”

Reese smiles to himself. “You’re meaner than I am. That’s a good thought.”

“Are you going or not, Mr. Reese?” He’s trying to sound annoyed, but he’s smiling, Reese can hear it in his voice. He’s excited. They both are.

“Of course. Where?”

Finch impatiently rattles off the name of the motel, address and room number and Reese is walking briskly among the normal people, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his long black coat.

***

This motel is a bad place. He supposes that’s why Finch chose it. It’s the kind of place you can go to when you’ve got blood caked on your hands, deep under your fingernails, and you might not get looked at twice. Still, it bothers him a little. Finch shouldn’t be so careless.

He belongs to the both of them, after all.

When he reaches the right room, the door is unlocked. “Finch,” he whispers accusingly.

“That’s why I asked you to hurry,” Finch says in his ear. “Don’t worry. I’m watching. He’s safe.”

“Where are you?” he asks, entering the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

“In the Library,” he says. “I can see you.”

Reese spots the camera, hastily installed in the space where the wall meets the ceiling, aimed directly at the doorway. Reese gives a small wave to the winking black lens and walks on into the room. It’s then that he sees Fusco for the first time. Fusco’s sitting at the end of the bed, his face turned in Reese’s direction, brow furrowed, head tilted at an inquisitive angle. The puzzlement Reese knows is in his eyes is hidden by a padded leather blindfold. Fusco’s hands are behind his back, most likely bound.

Finch has taken away his jacket, his shoes, and his tie, but left him mostly clothed.

Reese makes a low, involuntary sound, a quiet rumble of anticipation.

“That you?” he asks. Somehow, even when speaking from a place of such vulnerability, he still mostly sounds angry.

Reese doesn’t answer him, just moves forward, slowly, indulging himself, circling wide to get the full picture. His hands _are_ bound: zip cuffs, already cutting into the skin. It’s unbalanced, Reese thinks. The restraints suggest utility, function before comfort. The padded blindfold suggests care and affection.

Finch is kind of a strange guy, Reese thinks. He reaches out to soothe the pinched skin on Fusco’s wrists, but Fusco flinches away. “Hey!” he snaps. “Answer me.”

Reese keeps his mouth shut, moves to face him, kneels to get a better look. A cursory examination of his clothes reveals that Fusco probably had far more advance warning on this than he did. It’s expensive stuff, crisp and new, the clothing that Finch buys for him but Fusco’s scared to wear in case someone asks questions about how he can afford clothes like that on a cop’s salary. Finch probably called ahead and asked him to change. They probably discussed this.

Fusco’s mouth looks soft and wet, bitten. His throat is a similar story.

No collar. Reese smiles. Reese was adamant early on that the collar not be used when they were all together, the three of them, and Fusco takes that seriously. Finch respects that little holdout. He knows that the collar is theirs.

Reese reaches out and touches his bare throat, and Fusco sighs and relaxes against his hand. “Hey,” he breathes. His voice is warmer than Reese expects it to be.

“Hey.” Reese gives in, lets his hands and lips ghost over Fusco’s face and neck, indulging himself with a soft kiss on the forehead.

“Listen, don’t give me the silent treatment like that, OK?” he says, that anger coming back. “This place is a shithole. Somebody’s feeling me up, I want to make damn sure I know who they are.”

“I’m sorry, Lionel,” Reese whispers, hands still cupping Fusco’s face. “I didn’t realize keeping your virtue intact was so important to you.”

“Fuck you.” He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Softly, almost politely, he asks, “Is that blood?”

Reese strokes the side of his face with one long finger, moves himself between Fusco’s legs and holds him close with one arm so he can feel Fusco’s half-hard dick against his belly. “Yes, it is, Lionel.”

“W-whose is it?” The little stammer on the ‘w’ makes Reese force himself not to kiss him again so soon.

“You don’t know him.”

“Oh.”

“For that matter, I don’t know him.”

Not a word, now, just sharp and jagged breaths.

“It’s quite a lot of blood, Lionel. You can’t see it, but my hands are caked with it. Mostly dry, but I got a little on you, just here.” He taps one fingertip against a reddish-brown smudge on Fusco’s cheekbone. He leans in closer, puts his mouth right by Fusco’s ear. “And if I did something like that to someone I didn’t even know, imagine what I’m going to do to you.”

He feels Fusco go hard against him, shivers at the low, despairing moan that escapes Fusco’s throat.

“That might have been a bit much,” Finch says in the earpiece.

He doesn’t want to bring Fusco out of the deep, dark place he’s in right now, so he doesn’t respond to that. He checks the cameras. There are a lot this time, all angled towards the bed. Finch used to hide them, but they both found that it was better if Reese knew where they were. The better to play to them. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Fusco swallows hard, licks his lips nervously. “Did you…did you check the box?”

That gives him pause. “What box?”

Fusco jerks his head to one side, indicating direction. “It’s on the bed, somewhere. Your boyfriend left it for us.”

Reese stands to look. There is a box, shiny, black, and perfectly square, sitting on the dark bedspread just before the pillow. It’s about 7 inches square, like a large jewelry display box. He moves to retrieve it, holds the box in his hands.

“What is it?” he asks, speaking to Finch as much as he is to Fusco.

“Don’t know.” Fusco still seems anxious. “He said it was for me, but you had to be the one to open it.”

“Hmm.” Reese turns the box over in his hands.

“Open it, Mr. Reese.” Finch sounds a little amused.

He does. He chuckles to himself. Resting in the box’s inset is a curve of black silicone, molded to fit the body, the silvery glint of a bullet vibrator peeking from the end.

It’s intimidating in its thickness.

“You’re sure he’ll go for this, Finch?”

“I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t. I don’t recommend letting him see it, though. He, ah,” Finch clears his throat. “He underestimates himself.”

Reese removes the toy from its case, feels its weight in his hand.

“You’re gonna stick it in me, aren’t you?” Fusco says. His mouth is a thin line of resignation.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to open it, Lionel.” Reese puts the case on the bedside table, carries the toy over to him.

“I didn’t,” he says. “You guys are just getting predictable.”

Reese taps the tip of the toy against his palm. It’s like a black hook, waved with bulbs, threatening and enticing. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “I’ve never used anything like this on you.”

“Yeah,” Fusco sighs. “But he has.”

He can’t help it, but he always feels a sudden burst of cold, dark jealousy when he’s reminded that sometimes the other two are together without him, that sometimes Fusco submits to someone other than him. It’s childish, the rage he feels, and he hates it. But it can’t be helped. “You don’t like it?” he asks, as casual as he can.

Fusco starts to reply, rethinks it, goes tight-lipped and silent.

“He does,” Finch assures him. “But he doesn’t like that he likes it. You know.”

“I do,” Reese says. “What now?”

“Wash your hands,” Finch tells him. He’s guiding them now. “Then we can get started.”

***

He’s got Fusco stripped down and lying on his side, keeps telling him to relax while he slicks his fingers with the lubricant he found waiting for him on the bathroom sink, but Fusco won’t stop fidgeting. He keeps twisting his head around to look at Reese, even though the blindfold prevents him from seeing anything. The shirt is bunched up around his wrists because Reese didn’t want to unbind his hands, and Finch let out an agonized yelp in Reese’s ear when he threatened to cut the shirt off Fusco.

It’s a setback, Reese thinks. All the negotiation and bickering from the start put them both on edge, and now Fusco’s squirming nervously against the zip cuffs, worrying at the designer shirt crumpled around his hands. It’s bad because it’s Fusco, who is unsure. Fusco, who is forever on the brink of leaving them both. Fusco, who does not feel safe.

Reese just doesn’t want to push him too hard right now.

He may be making it worse.

“What’s taking so long?” Fusco asks in clipped tones.

“Yes, Mr. Reese, what _is_ taking so long?” Finch mutters.

“We can do this quickly,” Reese says, pushing his newly slickened fingers into Fusco once more, “or we can do this right.”

Fusco exhales sharply at the first push of Reese’s fingers, but calms to deep, even breaths as Reese starts to move them in and out, calmly pushing in a third with no resistance. “Yeah, OK.” For all the slow breathing he’s doing, there’s a slightly frantic edge to Fusco’s voice. “See, I appreciate what you’re doing for me, only you’ve been working me open for about ten goddamn minutes now and if we don’t get down to brass tacks real fuckin’ soon I’m gonna strangle you.”

Reese peers over Fusco’s side, sees his flushed and straining cock standing out in sharp relief against a pale thigh. Internally, his fingers circle Fusco’s prostate but exert no pressure. Fusco convulses with a snarl.

“I’m going to have to agree with Detective Fusco on this,” Finch says, trying to tamp down his impatience. His vowels are slightly drawn out, which means he’s probably cracked open the wine. “In the time you’ve taken to prepare him, I could have walked from the Library to the motel room and done it myself. I’ve checked.”

Reese believes him. Finch probably has Google Maps open right now. “I don’t want to rush this, Finch.”

“He can take it, Mr. Reese.” Finch’s voice softens. “You’re not going to hurt him. You’re being very careful.”

Reese sighs, removes his fingers gently, retrieves the toy from where it sits on the bedside table. It looks no less intimidating after it’s been lubricated, now glistening and dangerous. He positions it, lets the tip rest against him, presses a light, quick kiss to Fusco’s hip with a suddenness that makes him jump.

“Hey, Reese,” Fusco says, craning his head, mouth thin and downturned. “You OK?”

In answer, he slides the toy in up to the first ridge, and Fusco whines far back in his throat and buries his face in the mattress.

“Very good,” Finch says. “Now give him a moment to adjust before you carry on. Keep him relaxed.” He pauses; Reese can hear his slow breath. “You keep relaxed too.”

Reese digs his fingernails into the soft flesh of Fusco’s hip.

***

“Easy. Easy.”

He has Fusco pressed back against the headboard, hips lifted. He can hear his fingers scratching at the imitation wood as Reese eases the last bulb of the toy into him. Fusco cries out, gives a frantic little shudder as his body accepts the intrusion. His still-bound arms jerk suddenly, like he wants to reach out and grab onto something. Reese grips him by the shoulders and pushes him flat against the board.

“Anything I should be worried about?” Reese asks him.

“No, no,” he says, but he’s panting hard, hips twitching as Reese tries to hold him still. “I’m just...I almost checked out early there.”

“Hm.” Reese is getting to be a little curious about this thing, if he’s honest with himself. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“Does seem a bit early on, doesn’t it?” Finch says thoughtfully. If Reese listens, he can hear the faint tapping of computer keys. “Try to stave that off if you can, but if he does, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Are you typing?”

“ _Multitasking_ , Mr. Reese,” Finch says, sounding a little defensive.

“Is he not even paying attention?” Fusco asks Reese, voice tight with indignation. He raises his voice. “Are we _boring you_ , asshole?”

“Can you ask him to keep it down?” asks Finch, mildly.

“Shut up, Lionel,” Reese says, voice low and encouraging. “Finch, you’d better be doing something important.”

“Just a moment, just a moment.” Finch sounds harried, fingers clicking away. “I’m only taking advantage of a lull to attend to some minor financial matters.”

Reese’s eyes narrow. “You’re paying bills?”

Fusco groans, “Are you fucking with me?”

“Mr. Reese, who do you think keeps you in state-of-the-art weaponry and nice suits?” He’s gone defensive and snappish now. “Someone has to attend to the finances, or our organization will crumble to the ground.”

“We appreciate what you do for us, but there’s a time and a place, don’t you think, Harold?”

Fusco starts to add something, but Reese’s hand slides underneath him, grips the base of the toy, adjusts it and he fades to strangled, pissed-off sounds.

Finch sighs. “It just occurred to me and I didn’t want to forget,” he says sheepishly.

Reese shrugs his shoulders, turns to Fusco, who is shifting against Reese’s hand in a manner that seems almost involuntary. “Come on,” he whines. Reese’s fingertips drift over the end of the toy, feeling the nodule-covered knot pressing up into the space behind his balls, the warm, metallic end of the bullet. He gives the button a soft tap.

Immediately, he can feel the strong, steady buzz in his fingertips. Fusco freezes, head tilted back. His mouth is working, like he’s trying to speak, but all he manages is a soft “ah” before he catches his lower lip in his teeth and quietly tips backwards, knocking his head against the headboard.

“You alright?” Reese asks.

Fusco just gasps and thumps his head on the headboard again.

“Finch?” He’s unsure of this. He’s never seen anything shut Fusco up so thoroughly, short of the gag they used that one time (and never again because Reese was working with bitten, bandaged fingers for weeks after, and who needs that?).

“Huh,” Finch breathes, the “h” long and drawn-out. There’s no typing to be heard. “That’s never happened before.”

Fusco isn’t even moving. He’s just leaning back, spine arched, shaking. “What do I do with him?” Reese asks.

“Hmm.” Finch’s voice has dropped low in his belly; in his mind’s eye, Reese can see him leaning forward towards the monitor. “What do you want to do with him, Mr. Reese?”

It’s more freedom than he bargained on getting, honestly, and given a world of choice, Reese finds himself touching Fusco’s chest in an idle, aimless kind of way. An uninspired choice, but Fusco doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice. He’s somewhere else, rocking gently back and forth in some kind of ecstatic trance. His short, thick cock is twitching of its own accord, pre-come beading at the slit.

“Lionel,” Reese whispers. There is no response. Reese rolls his thumbs over Fusco’s nipples, teasing them to hardness. He tries pinching them, elicits a rushed murmur of “Stop that.”

“Hey.” Reese leans in close. “Hey, talk to me.”

Fusco, apparently at a loss, starts humming tunelessly.

Reese’s fingers are on his nipples again, pinching and twisting and pulling, and Fusco starts swearing at him, which Reese figures is the closest he’s going to get to conversation. He wraps his arms around Fusco’s waist, pulls him forward, practically into his lap.

In Reese’s ear, Finch makes a warm, sweet sound.

Reese’s cock throbs; he realizes he’s painfully hard. He drags Fusco closer so he’s straddling Reese’s knee and rocks him, rubbing himself against the soft bulk of Fusco’s thigh.

Reese cups the back of Fusco’s head, grips short, wiry hair. “You’re quiet today.”

Fusco struggles, finally gets out, “You don’t understand.”

“Tell me.” One arm stays wrapped around him, holding them steady as they move, the other wanders to Fusco’s inner thigh, begins to rub at tense, shaking muscles. “Tell me about it.”

“It. Ah. Pressure. Just. Presses down so hard and you feel…” There’s sudden tension in his face, and without thinking, Reese grips the base of his cock, chokes off the orgasm. “Mother _fucker_ ,” he snarls through gritted teeth.

Reese looks down between them, sees Fusco’s flushed cock dripping pre-come on his pant leg, feels his own dick twitch in response. “Stay with me, Lionel. What’s it like?”

“Hate you. Hate you so fucking much.”

“Shhh. Tell me.”

Fusco bites down on his lower lip, grinds his hips hard against Reese’s thigh. “It almost hurts,” he chokes out. “It’s pressing down so hard it hurts but it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever felt in your life and oh God make it stop.” His voice quiets to harsh, desperate gasping.

Frantic in his ear, Finch says, “John, you are _not allowed_ to make it stop.”

Reese holds him tighter, presses his cock hard against him, rolls his hips. He wants to be with him, skin on skin, feel his trembling firsthand. He wishes he was not still wearing a suit. He wishes he could tear the blindfold off Fusco’s face and watch his eyes go dark and bright. He wants to kiss him, but he won’t. “Sounds like it’s really something, Lionel,” he says, making an effort to keep his voice steady. “Maybe next time, I’ll let you use it on me.”

He comes right then, Almost soundless, just a strangled whimper and a sudden, hot spurt against Reese’s thigh. Fusco falls forward, rests his head against Reese’s shoulder, starts shuddering and doesn’t stop.

Reese pats him on the back, reaches between their bodies to switch the device off, when Finch’s voice in his ear stops him.

“Finch, he’s done.”

“Not yet,” Finch says. “Watch him. You’ll like this.”

Because Fusco is still shuddering, shivering continuously in little pulsing waves while his still-hard dick spasms against Reese. In a very soft voice, he keeps muttering “ohgodohgodohgodohgod” as his hips jerk. “Finch,” Reese begins, but his voice dies in his throat. He licks his lips, clears his throat. “Can I touch…?”

“Yes.”

Reese’s strong, smooth fingers curl around Fusco’s dick, jerking it slow, squeezing tight, milking it dry. He fucks Reese’s hot, slick hand with fitful little pushes. He’s gone someplace dark and agonizing, falling apart in Reese’s arms. “Are you coming again?” Reese asks him.

Fusco lets out a desperate, incoherent wail as his uncontrollable shuddering breaks and he collapses onto Reese, too fucked out to move, toy still buzzing away inside him. “Sss. Same one,” he manages. He buries his face in Reese’s throat with a miserable sound.

Finch sighs, warm satisfaction. “You can shut it off now, Reese.”

Reese complies, lowers Fusco down so he’s flat on his back, dick spent and softening on his thigh. “Finch, did you know that would happen?” Reese asks as he arranges limbs and sits back to admire what he’s turned poor, angry Fusco into.

“I had an idea,” Finch says modestly. “If you’d left it in a while longer, we could have forced another one, but I think he’s had enough for now.”

Reese grins, reaches out to touch Fusco’s face and check if he’s still conscious. He’s rewarded when Fusco spits in his direction and calls him a son of a bitch.

“What now?” he asks Finch, wiping saliva off his cheek.

Finch makes a sound, considers. “Wait a little while,” he says. “Let him have a nap.”

“Harold,” Reese mutters, slightly on edge.

“Be patient. You’ll get your turn. Cut the zip ties, while you’re at it. Rub his wrists to get the circulation going. They’ve been cuffed too long.” There’s genuine fondness in Finch’s voice. “Oh, and take the device out of him too.”

Fusco groans when the toy is unhooked from his body, puts up a vague, sleepy fight when Reese rolls him onto his side to cut the zip ties and finally tug the shirt off of his wrists. There are deep, reddish purple welts on each wrist, and Reese rubs at them, feels the muscles clench and unclench as Fusco works the blood back into his fingers.

“Finch says you should try to get some sleep,” Reese tells him.

“Finch came up with this?” he asks between shallow, panting breaths.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck him in the eye,” Fusco says firmly.

On the other end of the connection, Finch laughs.

***

They’re both lying back on the bed, Fusco’s head resting against Reese’s shoulder as he snores quietly. Reese watches the rise and fall of his chest intently as he talks to Finch over the earpiece.

“I never expect him to agree to this,” Reese murmurs. He grips himself through the front of his pants, but lazily, without intent.

“Hmm. Yes, he talks a good game, doesn’t he?”

Reese brushes his fingers along the side of Fusco’s face, and he shifts in his sleep with a grunt.

“How do you want this to happen, Reese?” Finch asks him.

“Don’t know,” he says. “I’d like to fuck him, but right now…”

“That’s not advised,” Finch agrees. “He’s going to be sore as it is.”

Reese sighs, stretches, folds his hands on his chest. “Right. What, then?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want. If you’d rather it remained uncomplicated, you could always let him finish you off with his mouth and call it a night.”

Reese laughs, brief and harsh. “Finch, nothing about that is uncomplicated. He’d never agree to that. The man has his pride.”

There’s a long silence.

“Finch?”

“Sorry,” he says after a brief pause. “Am I to assume that this isn’t something you do together?”

“No,” Reese says. “He _bites_. You saw what happened when I tried to gag him.” His brow furrows, he chews his lip a moment. “I’ve done it to him, a few times,” he confesses.

There’s the sound of shifting, the liquid slosh of more wine being poured into a glass. “See, _that_ ’s interesting,” Finch begins.

“There’s nothing interesting about it,” Reese says as a bubble of indignation rises within him. “I just wanted to make him squirm. I knew he’d never return the favor.”

“But you never even asked.” Finch’s voice is wavering under the influence of the wine. Everything he says is infused with a sense of wonderment.

Reese narrows his eyes. “How would you know that?”

“Because if you’d asked, he would have done it. Wake him up.”

Reese reaches for Fusco’s upper arm automatically, gives it a squeeze. “We’re really doing this?” he asks Finch under his breath as Fusco begins to stir.

“Yes.”

Reese hesitates. “Can I take off the blindfold?”

A fond puff of air in the microphone. “Of course you can.”

In an instant, Reese’s fingers are tugging at the little buckle that secures the blindfold around Fusco’s eyes, holds it on tight so it won’t slip, but not tight enough to hurt. He doesn’t think so, anyway. Fusco’s never complained about it.

That’s not really a guarantee.

He peels the blindfold away from Fusco’s face, leaving the soft, pink circular imprints of the padding around his eyes. Fusco blinks at him, squints in the light. His eyelids are heavy with sleep. His lashes are wet.

“What is it?” Fusco asks, voice thick and tired.

Reese’s hand rests against the side of his face and swipes his thumb just below Fusco’s eye. There’s a mad, uncontrollable little smile forming on his face. He asks, “Were you crying?”

Fusco slaps his hand away. “Your eyes would water too,” he mutters.

Reese recaptures Fusco’s hand and grips it gently. “I’m sure.” He reaches out, runs fingers over the raw pink skin around his eyes, damp with sweat or tears or the strain.

“You guys done talking?” Fusco asks him, tilting his head into Reese’s fingertips.

“Yeah,” he says, marveling at Fusco nuzzling his hands. His early prickliness has faded into something agreeable and needy, something that wants very badly to be touched and held and petted and treated like something of value. Reese has these episodes about Fusco sometimes, these wild tangents his mind goes off on because he can’t be honest with Fusco. Not like he can with Finch. This one’s about renting them a honeymoon suite in the Waldorf-Astoria for a week and not letting him leave, making him come again and again until he gets too sweet to tolerate.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch says, dragging Reese out of his thoughts. “Could you pass me to Detective Fusco, please?”

That, he wasn’t expecting. “What?”

“Just give the earpiece to Detective Fusco for a moment, please. I want to direct him personally.”

Reese takes the little bud out of his ear, holds it out to Fusco. “It’s for you,” he tells him.

Fusco sits up, takes the earpiece cautiously. Clearly, he’s as surprised as Reese is, but he pops it into his ear and listens. He has his head tilted to one side, expression thoughtful, nodding along to whatever it is Finch is telling him. At one point, he laughs, sharp and bitter. As Fusco listens, his back straightens; he becomes calmer, more solid.

Fusco’s focus snaps from the voice in his ear back to Reese. “Okay,” he says. “Take your jacket off, at least.”

Reese complies, shrugs his shoulders out of the coat while he watches Fusco change into someone else.

“Alright,” Fusco’s saying to Finch. “Alright. I know what I’m doing. It’s not rocket science.” He takes the earpiece out again, passes it back to Reese. “Wants to talk to you again.”

“Thank you, Lionel.”

Fusco shakes his head. “He can go on, can’t he?”

“I think clarity is very important to him,” Reese says as he slides the earpiece back into its rightful place.

Finch sighs. “Detective Fusco is aware that I do have microphones planted in the room? He doesn’t have to be wearing the earpiece for me to hear him.”

“He forgets sometimes, Finch.”

“I suspect that even if he did remember, he wouldn’t care,” Finch murmurs, sounding oddly resigned.

“Probably not,” Reese says, giving Fusco a fond little nudge with his foot. “What now?”

“Now?” Finch’s smile is audible. “It’s out of your hands.”

Fusco is shoving him around now, firm and persistent. “Sit back,” he says, guiding Reese along so his shoulders are braced against the bed’s headboard. He knocks Reese’s legs apart, shoving at his knees, and kneels between them, gaze bright with intent. He grabs at Reese’s crotch, outlines him for a moment with rough, efficient fingers and Reese grunts when Fusco gives him a sudden, confident squeeze. “Careful,” he snaps, but Fusco just smiles a little and grips Reese’s balls through the front of his pants, not quite hard enough to hurt.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says.

Reese nods, tries to keep his eyes from widening. They are _crystal clear_.

He fumbles with the button on Reese’s pants and when Reese tries to help him, Fusco grabs his wrist and pins it momentarily to the headboard, rapping Reese’s knuckles hard against the wood. “Stop that,” Fusco says firmly, and he tugs sharp and sudden, pops the button.  The zipper gets stuck halfway down and Fusco lets out a harsh, exasperated exhalation, but Reese doesn’t try to help, just lifts his hips as Fusco gives up and pulls Reese’s pants down, tight and half-undone, dragging underwear with them. “Shut up,” he says, balling up the pants and throwing them inelegantly off the bed.

“Is he always like this?” Reese asks Finch, staring heavenward as Fusco pushes Reese’s legs wider, straining the muscles in his thighs, making one stiff hip joint pop.

“No,” Finch says, drawing out the ‘n’, clearly intrigued. “Almost never. Maybe you _should_ be concerned about biting, John. He seems to feel very strongly about you.”

Reese reaches out almost reflexively, seizes Fusco’s hair as his head lowers, drags him up again.

For a moment, there’s a heat to him, something like anger and pain and want all jumbled up and confused in his head, but then Fusco blinks and it all seems to cool as his brow furrows and the rage in his eyes fizzles out. “You okay?” he asks.

Reese isn’t sure, but his grip on Fusco begins to slacken and uncurl. “I don’t want your teeth that close to me when you’re angry,” he says.

Fusco shrugs, smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. Something about you, man. Pisses me right the fuck off every time. I’m not gonna bite you.”

“Frankly, Lionel,” Reese says, “I don’t like that this is a conversation we need to have.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m not gonna bite you. I’m not a fucking animal. The end.” Fusco rolls his shoulders, shakes Reese’s hand out of his hair. “You want me to kiss you or something first?”

Reese wouldn’t have thought so, but yes, yes he does, actually. He leans forward, but Fusco meets him halfway, shoves him back, hands tight on Reese’s shoulders, making fists in the white collared shirt that Reese is incongruously still wearing. He kisses like he wants to bruise Reese’s mouth, but he doesn’t bite. Reese tries to put his arms around him, gets pushed hard against the board for his trouble.

“Hands off,” Fusco says, one hand resting protectively, belatedly against the back of Reese’s head. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Slipped my mind,” Finch says, pleasantly, not sounding even slightly forgetful.

“Slipped his mind,” Reese repeats through gritted teeth.

Fusco smirks. “Yeah, I bet.” He presses against Reese like it’ll make him stick to the headboard. “If I don’t get to touch you, you don’t get to touch me. That’s how it works.”

Reese isn’t sure if he’s ever wanted to touch him more than he does right now. He wants to grab hold of Fusco, pin him to the bed, jerk him off and finger him and kiss him and bite him until Fusco remembers who’s in charge around here, but he doesn’t. He thinks he may be developing some kind of respect for Fusco’s boundaries, which comes as a surprise. He supposes that’s a good thing, long term. Reese curls his fingers in the sheets, resolves to hang on until it’s over. “Fair enough,” he says.

Fusco smiles a little at that and seems surprised at himself.

“I’m surprised I didn’t have to intervene there, Mr. Reese,” Finch drawls as Fusco settles down on his belly between Reese’s legs, upper body propped up on his elbows. “I was sure there would be trouble.”

“Did you give him th-” Reese cuts himself off with a whine as Fusco’s tongue slides along the underside of his cock. He grits his teeth, swallows hard as Fusco begins to mouth at the head tentatively. “…Did you give him that idea?”

“No,” Finch says. “That’s his own little quirk. I saw no reason to break him of the habit. Everyone’s entitled to a little bit of control, don’t you think, Mr. Reese?”

Fusco takes him in about halfway and Reese bucks up into his mouth, is immediately slammed back down, Fusco’s fingers digging hard into his hips.

“Well, Detective Fusco thinks so,” Finch amends. “And I’m inclined to agree.”

Reese doesn’t respond for a moment, just gasps soundlessly as Fusco laps at the head of his cock with no particular urgency. It occurs to Reese that he’s being played with, and it’s unfamiliar, being on this end of things. Fusco’s mouth slides over the head again, tongue pushing against the slit, and the soft hitching sound that escapes from Reese makes Fusco laugh to himself, sends vibrations running through them. The noise Reese makes is low and strangled.

Fusco looks up, takes his mouth off of Reese. “Sorry,” he says, looking sheepish again.

“Don’t apologize,” Reese grits out, hands twisting in the sheets because all he wants to do is pull Fusco’s head back down again.

“Yeah,” Fusco sighs, and the puff of warm air across Reese’s dick does strange things to him. “Let’s get to it, then.” His mouth slides over Reese’s cock, smooth and hot and sucked in, and Reese bites down hard on his lip.

“When did this start?” Reese asks a little later, after he’s pulled himself together. Fusco doesn’t even pause because he knows who Reese is talking to.

“Hmm,” Finch says, thoughtfully. “Early on. There was no production, John. I just asked him if he would, and he did it. It was the simplest thing in the world.”

“Had he done it before?” Reese asks. “Had he-?”

“I didn’t think to ask,” Finch says. “That’s your preoccupation, not mine. For what it’s worth, he didn’t seem inexperienced. But he has improved considerably since the first instance, so it could be that he was just a natural. Oh,” he says, and Reese can hear the distant scrape of a chair being inched forward. “Would you look at that?”

Reese doesn’t have to look, because he can feel it, Fusco’s mouth slowly advancing downward, inching toward the base.  He wonders if Fusco does this for Finch too, if Finch makes strangled, agonized sounds as the warmth of Fusco’s mouth enfolds him.

“What do you do together?” he asks, breaking the rules and sliding a hand through Fusco’s hair, not pulling or pushing, just resting, and Fusco must be intent on his task because he doesn’t even seem to notice. “Tell me what he’ll do for you that he won’t do for me.”

“John, if he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

“Please,” he says, trying to roll his hips against Fusco’s mouth, still pinned.

Finch sighs. “There could be nothing,” he says. “If you wanted, there could be nothing in the world that he’d hold back from you. All you have to do is ask.”

“I can’t,” Reese says. “I can’t ask him for that.”

“I know.” Finch’s voice is gentle, resigned, lightly touched with humor. “I know, John. That’s why I’m here.” There’s a soft groan, a crackle of his bones. Finch is stretching. “You should kiss him, when he’s done. He’ll appreciate it.”

Reese groans, lifts his hips as Fusco’s hands slide underneath him, supporting him, holding him up as the throat around him constricts, tightens around him, and Reese comes, suppressing desperate sounds as Fusco continues to suck at him until every drop is gone and Reese goes limp. Only then does Fusco take his mouth off him. He inches away to sit on the edge of the bed, spit on the hotel floor, wipe his lips.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, sounding at once shy and smug.

Reese pulls him down and kisses him, and Fusco protests, muffled and sharp, but he doesn’t fight it at all.

The two of them drop off into half-sleep again, Fusco’s head resting against Reese’s ribs. “Finch?” Reese asks, not for the first time. “What are you getting out of this?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Finch says. “I’m very fond of you both. But I’ve always preferred to watch from the sidelines. You know that.” He clears his throat, adds, almost innocently, “When are you coming back?”

Reese feels his lips draw into a smirk. “Do you need a little help, Finch?

“It would be appreciated, yes.” There’s a thin line of tension in his voice.

“So come down here,” Fusco says, not opening his eyes.

Reese looks down at him. In his ear, Finch says, “You know, I often wonder how much of our conversations he’s capable of overhearing.”

Fusco’s eyes flicker open, meet Reese’s. “No, I can’t hear you,” he says. “Like I said. Predictable.” He flops flat on his back, talks to the ceiling like he does when he’s talking to Finch when he’s bugged. “Don’t make us get up on your account. Get your crippled ass down here.”

“He’s a real poet, isn’t he?” Finch says, flatly.

“If I come back home, I can’t bring him with me,” Reese reminds him.

“That’s true.”

“How long did you say it would take you to walk here?” Reese asks.

“I’ll take a cab.”


End file.
